


a letter written in the language of birds

by Varanu



Category: Sarantine Mosaic - Guy Gavriel Kay
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Pre-Canon, or rather lack of relationship tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28104477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varanu/pseuds/Varanu
Summary: Shirin gets a letter from her weird wizard dad.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	a letter written in the language of birds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eisoj5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisoj5/gifts).



In retrospect, Shirin thought she ought to have kept her background a secret. 

She’d been artless when she’d first come to the Greens; was still artless, compared to the Sarantines. Someone had asked her, too-innocent, where she was from, and she’d thoughtlessly told them _Trakesia,_ and _the Daughters of Jad,_ and now the rest of the dancers kept calling her _Eladia,_ after the Blessed Victim. It wasn’t meant cruelly, of course. It was just teasing. But at the same time it wasn’t _just_ teasing, because nothing in Sarantium was ever _just_ anything, and it was… it wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t easy either. 

What she ought to have done was smile, and change the subject. There would have been rumors, but rumors were all right. Desirable even; they added mystery. Better mystery than _Eladia._

Too late, now. 

Now it was nearly evening, and Shirin walked alone to her cramped Hippodrome apartment, skirting the raked-smooth sands. The stands were shadowed deep gray and blue, but the setting sun had found the tips of the monuments on the _spina,_ and colored them orange. Like a supplicant’s fingertips reaching toward Jad, Shirin thought. She slowed and brought her hand up, arching her wrist and fingers to feel out variations on the pose. Then she wrapped her robe more tightly and hurried on. It was midsummer, but she had danced for hours and then bathed longer than she meant to, and her blood was at a low ebb. 

Her apartment was deserted when she reached it. She had a roommate—another Greens dancer named Thalia—but Shirin rarely saw her. Thalia was well-established among the dancers, and had a developed social life. She was cordial enough to Shirin—which at this point merely meant that she called her _Shirin_ and not _Eladia_ —but not a friend. 

But it was quiet, and private, and at the moment that was all Shirin needed. She took off the robe and the dancing silks beneath, and changed into her nightgown. Then she hung up the colorful silks, and began to take the pins out of her hair. 

A knock on the door made the flimsy wood rattle. Shirin sighed, and pinned her hair up again, and pulled on the robe. It was pretty enough; it would serve, as long as it wasn’t a summons. She ought to welcome a summons, she knew, but she felt leaden, in both spirit and limbs. Tomorrow, maybe. She opened the door, letting in the stale hallway air. 

It was a boy. 

For a moment Shirin stared. She recognized him, of course; one of the boys who hung about the Hippodrome, who ran errands and carried messages among the professionals who served the factions: dancers and charioteers, grooms and wheelwrights, seamstresses and cooks and carpenters. What was his name? She didn’t remember his name. She gave him a smile anyway; it didn’t hurt. 

“Hello,” she said. “What do you need?”

“You’re Shirin, right?” he said. At her nod he said, “I’ve got a parcel for you. From the port—man said it was all the way from Varena.”

 _Varena?_ He held out a small dun-colored cloth bag by its knotted drawstring. Shirin took it without thinking. It was fat and soft, though heavy. Something small and dense inside, maybe. 

“Who from?” she said. Bewilderment tripped up her tongue. She didn’t know anyone in Batiara; hardly knew where Varena was. 

“The name was Zoticus,” the boy said. 

The name lanced through her, piercing the sudden stiffness that weighed down her weary limbs. She felt her expression change; saw the way it changed the boy’s expression in turn. 

_Zoticus._ She had heard that name in her mother’s voice, often enough. 

Her father had sent to her. 

“Thank you,” she said. The words seemed to come from somewhere else, somewhere unseen. “Is there—let me see. A coin for you, thank you. Is there anything else?”

He made the coin disappear, and shook his head. Shirin gave him another smile, rather worse than the first, and shut the door. It seemed to echo behind her. She took two steps and sank down on a chair, heart racing. In her ears her blood sounded like the sea. 

_Zoticus._ Her father. She’d written to him; often as a child, and less often lately, as no response ever came. Last time she’d written—Jad's blood, barely two months ago— to tell him she’d arrived in Sarantium and been accepted to the Greens as a dancer. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t write anymore after that. New life, new rules. 

But he’d responded. 

Carefully, with her nails—long, lacquered, she’d learned to do that here—she unpicked the knot at the bag’s cinched mouth, and loosened it. Her hands were oddly steady. On stage she would have made them shake. Locks of musty wool crowded the top of the bag; something fragile inside. She plucked the wool out, soft and a little greasy against her fingertips. Her hand touched something that rustled—paper—and beneath it, something cool, and smooth, and irregular. She drew it out. 

It was a small and drab bird, made out of oil-dark leather and dull gray metal. 

For long moments Shirin looked at the bird. It seemed to look back, with its greenish glass eye. Sometimes one saw little jeweled birds in rich houses; this wasn’t one of those. It was all of a piece, the wings suggested with two etched curves. Instead of legs a post emerged from its belly, ending in a clamp that could be screwed tight to fasten the bird to a perch. A child's toy. Why would her father have sent her a toy? But of course there was a letter; surely he would explain. She reached back into the bag. 

It wasn’t long. 

_Shirin,_ the letter said, 

_Sarantium is an interesting place. I never made it so far in my travels. I’ve sent you something to keep you company there. Her name is Danis. Take good care of her. Try not to spend too much of your career on your back; I hear that is the usual outcome for Sarantine dancers._

_Zoticus_

_He might have signed it ‘Father’,_ she found herself thinking, irritated. She crumpled the paper in her fist, tearing it a little with her nails. It wasn’t as satisfying a motion as she’d hoped; she dropped it on the floor and stepped on it. 

“So you’re Danis, are you,” she said. Bitterness made it meaner than she expected. Well, it couldn’t hear her. “Keep me company, hmm? Do you sing, at least?” She turned the heavy little bird over in her hands, searching for a knob to wind, or a lever to flip. 

_Don’t mock me,_ someone said mournfully. 

Shirin dropped the bird. It landed on the floor with a _clang_ and lay on its side, apparently undamaged.

 _Don’t drop me, either!_ the voice complained. It was a lazy, aristocratic sort of voice—not the same accent as the Sarantine patricians, but obviously related. _Get hold of yourself._

Shirin’s neck and arms prickled, but she made herself take a deep breath. The bird was talking to her. That was… all right. She could deal with it. Her mother had claimed her father was some sort of alchemist. Apparently it was true. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re… Danis?”

 _I’m Danis,_ the bird confirmed. _And I suppose you’re Shirin. Pick me up, don’t leave me lying here._

“Can you see?” Shirin said, curiously, but she picked the bird up. It was as cold and inert as—well, as a toy. She’d half expected it to turn warm and living.

 _Yes. Not out of my eyes, though, it doesn’t work like that._

“How does it work?” 

_I couldn’t begin to tell you,_ Danis said, with dignity. 

Shirin abandoned that line of conversation; it didn’t really matter, anyway. “Did my father give you a message for me?” 

_He ought to have sent a letter,_ Danis said. 

“He did, just…” Shirin flapped her free hand, knowing she looked ridiculous. “He’s never written to me before. I don’t understand. Why now? And why did he send you?” 

_He didn’t tell me much,_ Danis said. _You’re his daughter. You live in Sarantium. He wanted you to have a magic talking bird. What did the letter say?_

_Take care of Danis. Don’t become a whore._ Shirin found herself unwilling to say the words, but the bird sighed. 

_Never mind,_ it said. _In any case, I’m here if you want me._

It was more than Zoticus had ever offered her. Shirin sighed. A half-dozen sentences and a magic bird. Not a very informative beginning to a relationship. Still… he’d answered her letter. He’d never done that before. And he’d sent her something magical, and tried to give her advice. Stupid advice, but it was something, wasn’t it? Maybe he’d keep writing to her, now that she’d made it to Sarantium. Maybe he was proud of her. Something young and silly in her warmed at the thought. She pushed it down, irritated with herself, but it persisted. 

“Thank you,” she said at last. “And we should talk more, but I have a roommate, and she’s due back any minute now, so I hope you can see and hear from a locked trunk.”

 _Mice and blood,_ Danis said, but she didn’t protest. As Shirin bundled the little bird away among her other things she found herself smiling, faintly. 

She had a secret, now. And a father, in a way. And a friend? 

Well. They’d have to see. 


End file.
